The Unwanted Son
by Patrick Hough
Summary: The Unwanted Son is the story of a young Spock and the events that shaped his destiny, and of the relationships that impacted his life long before he ever met a man named Kirk. This story has been bouncing around in my head for a long time, and it is my first effort. I hope someone out there enjoys it, as amateurish as it is sure to be.
1. Chapter 1 - Vulcan

_Vulcan_

 _2421_

He stood alone, as he had always done, in quiet peace & solitude. His hands were clasped before him, hidden deep in the folds of his robe. The wind was the only sound to be heard as it whistled through the rocks of the desert below. The sun was almost gone now, and the first stars of the evening could be seen overhead in the cloudless sky. The reddish tones of the rocks around him deepened in the growing twilight. Already he could feel the day's heat fading, the chill of the desert's night beginning to fall.

He came here often now, to this place of his choosing, a place for peaceful meditation and quiet reflection. A place where he knew he would never be disturbed, where he was free to let his mind reflect on a lifetime of memories, of faces and voices now long silent.

He thought often of his mother, and still tended the garden she had once loved. Her hands had worked the soil here for decades, removing the smallest of rocks as she tenderly planted tiny bulbs and seedlings. There were times he could swear he felt the faintest echo of her mind when his own hands were deep in the earth of her garden, just a flicker of her, a wisp of thought or emotion. These fleeting moments were a rare source of pleasure for him, and he occasionally tended the garden whether it needed it or not.

As a child, he had been fascinated by his mother's devotion to her garden. She would often journey for kilometers out into the forbidding desert plains, searching for a specific type or color of the soil. She spent hours looking for stones of just the right size, shape, and texture. He often helped her carefully unearth unique and interesting forms of plant life to be relocated to the garden. She taught him the names of the different plants, their unique characteristics & properties, and which ones were safe to eat. He learned which ones grew well in the sunlight, and which ones preferred the shade.

She would hold for him in graceful hands the tiny creatures of the desert: reptiles, insects, small mammals. Occasionally one would find itself a resident of her garden if its presence would prove a benefit. Later in life, he realized that these experiences were a major factor in his developing a keen interest in the sciences- geology, biology, botany, and many others.

He was not aware of it at the time, but it must have been overwhelming for her at first. This was not her world, and the flora and fauna here were completely unknown to her. He realized now that as she showed him the living things of the desert that she herself was also learning and it must have been as new for her as it was for him. The bond grew strong between them as they discovered things together, and as a young child was unaware that this sort of thing was very much not the norm on this world.

He had shown her things as well. She had been in awe of his sensitive hearing, which was far more refined than her own. He could hear the heartbeats of the tiny creatures in the desert around them, or the sound of insects as they burrowed into the soil of the garden. Once he had alerted her to the presence of a prowling desert cat, having heard its nearly silent footfalls in the soft desert soil.

The wind had died down and was now almost silent. His hearing now was not what it once was, for he was very old, even for a Vulcan. Regardless, he treasured the silence of the desert. The absolute absence of noise was something he had not been exposed to very often in his adult life. Much of that life had been spent aboard ship, where it was never totally silent: the ever-present background noises of the engines, atmospheric pumps, and equipment had been his near-constant companions for decades.

The path to true peace was silence, he thought. Silence allowed the complete and total focus of thought and produced clarity of reason that he found most refreshing. He often meditated for hours on end and relished the fact that he now had the opportunity to do so. His retirement had been a long time coming indeed, and was, he felt, justly deserved. He had given a lifetime of service, of selfless dedication to duty and to the Federation.

He often found amusement in the reverence now attributed by some to the actions and events of his long career. His presence at a diplomatic summit or scientific conference never failed to generate a chorus of whispers, of wide-eyed and impossibly young cadets who had grown up hearing tales of the voyages of a ship whose very name had become a legend.

His thoughts drifted, as they always did, eventually, to the ship. His home for many, many years, he had traveled undeterminable distances in her, to a thousand different worlds. She still existed; she was and would always be an orbiting museum though it had been many years since he had been aboard her. Of course, she was not the original vessel, and her replacement was very different now than her predecessor had been at first. She had been refit many times, and over the years had been continuously upgraded with the latest technology. Gone were the striking colors her interior had once carried, as was the old external sensor dish. Very different indeed.

Different, and in many ways better, but not the same. Now that he had nothing but time in which to do so, he had found himself reflecting back often on his early days in Starfleet. He remembered a time in which his duties had centered around the sciences he had studied for so long, and there was always something astonishingly new and different to study and learn about. He had never tired of this, and would have been content to spend the rest of his career that way, but it was not to be. Diplomacy and politics replaced biology and physics and had not proved nearly as satisfying….

He remembered the first time he had ever stood upon a completely new and unknown alien world, as part of an exploratory landing party. Every detail of this moment was forever etched in his mind: the slight change in atmospheric pressure he felt as soon as the transport was complete, the odd odor of the air around him, smelling like clean fresh earth and vegetation, so different from the sterilized and processed air of the ship. The gravity, too, had been different, and he had felt oddly light on his feet. The ground gave slightly under his feet, but was spongy in texture and immediately returned to its original state as he walked; there were no footprints here.

He had walked slowly down a gentle incline to a quietly bubbling stream with a cool mist rising from it. It was early morning here, and the world's stars had not yet risen above the horizon. He was stricken by the absolute tranquility of his surroundings. There were no advanced life forms here, no industrial pollution or overpopulation to spoil the natural beauty of the world around him. The air was so clear that the brightest stars in the sky could be seen in full daylight. He knew that one of the reasons he and the rest of the landing party were here was to evaluate the world's potential as a candidate for colonization. It would be an ideal choice for this, but he had to admit a part of him (the human part, no doubt) hoped that this place would remain pristine and undisturbed. In his experience, colonization was very rarely beneficial to the world being colonized.

He stood at the edge of the stream, looking into the fantastically clear water at a multitude of tiny brightly colored fish swirling among the stones on the streambed. Aquatic life forms were especially interesting to him, for there were so few of them on Vulcan. Remembering that he was, in fact, supposed to be studying this world, he scanned the stream and its inhabitants with his tricorder. The water was absolutely pure, hydrogen, oxygen and nothing else. He noticed a small blue amphibious reptile perched on a stone, awaiting the first rays of the morning. It gazed at him, curious but not afraid. Perhaps it had no natural predators here, he mused.

He began to walk beside the stream, and as he walked he heard the sounds and calls of the various animals and birds beginning to stir as the first of the morning suns rose over the western horizon. He soon came to a bend in the stream, where the current had created a deeper basin. He could see larger fish near the bottom, and some type of bioluminescent creatures in the deep shadows of an overhanging rock. He saw a blur of motion to his left and saw a long, slender fish swimming away from him, ascending toward the surface of the stream. As it burst from the water in a shower of water droplets, it spread beautiful translucent wings and took flight, and in seconds, it had disappeared from sight. It was followed by a second, and then a third.

This is what I want to do, he thought. I want to learn about all of these things! How fascinating it would be to be allowed to study this world in detail! Just to be here, to be walking along a stream no one had ever walked along before-was staggering in its implications & possibilities. As he walked, he thought of Amanda, and of the endless delight she would find in a world such as this. She would have loved this place, the colors, sounds, & smells of a thousand different flowers and plants.

He thought also of his father. Sarek would have perhaps appreciated the setting as well, but would never have communicated it outwardly. He and his father had not spoken for some time, ever since Spock had politely but firmly refused entry into the Vulcan Science Academy. Sarek had always assumed his son would become a scientist, and there was no better place to begin such a career as the Academy. The disappointment was palpable in his eyes at he looked at his son, and Spock felt the void that had always been present between them widen once again.

As he looked around the beautiful world surrounding him, a part of him wanted to say "Look, father. Look at what I have become, at where I am standing. I _am_ a scientist…" He knew, however, that he would never speak those words...

He ascended a small rise and descended into a grove of lush vegetation. Though the growth was dense, game trails were clearly defined, and he had no trouble moving deeper into the grove. As his tricorder continued to catalog and amass terraquads of data on this new world, he came upon a large tree with beautiful silver-blue leaves. His hypersensitive ears picked up an odd low-frequency trilling sound, which grew louder as he approached the tree.

He was surprised to discover that the leaves of the tree were themselves producing the sound, from a tiny vibrating membrane at the base of each leaf. It was a peaceful, soothing sensation, and he doubted his human companions would have been able to hear it at all.

He noticed that, although the other types of trees around him were populated by many types of birds, this one had none at all-perhaps the trilling sound was a deterrent, some sort of defense mechanism? Fascinated, he studied the tree for several minutes, and then moved on. Soon it would be time to rejoin the other members of the landing party and return to the ship. He looked forward to the days ahead, to the hours he would spend in the ship's various laboratories studying the many samples they had gathered here. He did not realize it at the time, but this was as close to perfect contentment as he had ever experienced in his lifetime.

There had been countless worlds since then that he had studied and walked upon, but he had never forgotten the first one. At that time in his life, the universe had been full of wonder and the promise of endless discoveries waiting to be made and new things to be learned. He had never considered that Starfleet would ever want him to be anything but a scientist and imagined a long career culminating in a teaching position at the Academy or a prestigious university. As a child, he had spent much of his time in solitude, for no one wanted to be associated with the half-breed boy. As a result, he was quite content to spend his off-duty time alone, for there were always books to read, experiments to conduct, and studies to be made. He had no need of friends or companions, for he was in many ways his father's son, whether he wished to be or not.

Of course, his life had had taken a different path indeed…


	2. Chapter 2 - Utopia Planitia Shipyards

_Utopia Planitia Shipyards_

 _2254_

 _167 years earlier_

He sat expressionless, his hands in his lap as he felt the shuttlecraft begin to slow, then very slightly shudder as the tractor beam took hold. He saw the pilot's shoulders tense a bit, and he knew they were very close. The three rectangular viewports at the front of the shuttle showed only empty space, and he could tell they were in a gentle turn to port. The other passengers around him were chattering excitedly, smiling at each other, full of anticipation. The shuttlecraft's pilot gave an amused glance over his shoulder, making sure everyone was still strapped in. There was a brief exclamation of excitement as a vessel came into view. It quickly died down, though, as the passengers realized that the ship they had seen wasn't nearly big enough to be their destination.

It hadn't been a long flight, but it had been long enough for most of his fellow passengers to steal a few curious glances in his direction. Most had never met a Vulcan and were perhaps unsure of the etiquette involved. He could tell that many of them were fresh cadets straight out of the academy, full of youthful enthusiasm. For most this was obviously their first assignment, and they were very aware just how lucky they were. They remembered how envious their friends had been, friends who were themselves heading to their assignments aboard slow moving freighters, even slower non-warp capable courier vessels, and starbases that didn't go anywhere.

Many of them had been traveling for days, and it showed in tired eyes, wrinkled uniforms, and an assortment of various equipment bags and containers. His own uniform was immaculate, and his few belongings were in a case at his feet, magnetically affixed to the deck plates. His uniforms, some books, and a bundle of letters from Amanda-that was it. He traveled light, to say the least. He did not understand the human need to amass and collect large quantities of personal belongings, especially those that served no logical purpose or function. Humans would carry bulky items light years just to hang on a wall as a decoration, or sit on a shelf and gather dust.

The interior of the shuttlecraft darkened as a shadow fell across the forward viewports. A hush fell over the shuttlecraft's interior as the end of an enormous warp nacelle came into view. Then the shuttlecraft leveled out, and the rest of the ship came into view, so big the three viewports together were not wide enough to see all of her. The large shuttle bay doors at the aft end of her secondary hull were already open, and the shuttle gently came to rest on the pad. Spock could feel a vibration resonating through the deck plates and knew it was the bay doors closing. He heard the clinking of restraining belts being opened, of bags and bundles being gathered, and the gentle pops the shuttlecraft's hull made as the bay was pressurizing.

He noticed that everyone's eyes were transfixed by a single glowing red light above the pressure hatch that was the shuttlecraft's only entry point. Finally, the red light winked out, and a green one illuminated beside it. The pilot double-checked his atmospheric pressure monitor and then initiated the sequence that opened the pressure hatches. Spock felt his ears pop, as the pressure in the bay was a little higher than that in the shuttlecraft. Immediately there was a rush for the hatch, the passengers eager to step onto the deck of their new home for the first time. A few tried to put on an air of indifference, as though they were old hands at this, but it fooled no one.

Spock remained in his seat until the shuttlecraft was empty, with only the pilot still at his station. He then released his restraining belt, retrieved his case, stood, & walked calmly to the hatch.

He nodded once at the pilot and then stepped through the hatch onto the deck below.

 _USS Enterprise NCC-1701_

 _In orbit at Utopia Planitia Shipyards_

Spock saw that, although they appeared very eager to arrive on board, his fellow passengers apparently had no idea where to go once they got there. He saw them milling about in confusion, looking at a bewildering deck layout & directory on the corridor wall. He himself had memorized the path he needed to take to his new quarters and headed forward to the first bank of turbolifts going to the primary hull. He was surrounded by the smells of a brand new ship-fresh paint, clean machine oil, and newly formed composite materials. The turbolift quickly took him to his assigned deck level. Once there, he quickly located his assigned quarters, the doors of which obediently opened at his approach.

He was pleased that they had already been programmed to recognize his identity and that they were comfortably warm. The climate controls had automatically selected a temperature and humidity that would provide a baseline of comfort to a Vulcan. He could adjust them as he wished later, but for now, they were quite comfortable. He noted that, although they were not large, his quarters were more than adequate for his needs, and quite efficiently designed. He opened his case and stowed away all of his uniforms and personal items, which took less than three minutes. He then logged his arrival in the ship's computer.

He saw that there was already an itinerary created for him and that he was scheduled for various orientation briefings, a medical appointment, etc. He saw that his duty station was in one of the larger laboratories in the lower decks of the primary hull. He was pleased with this, for a lab of that size performed a variety of functions, and would prove to be an interesting post.

He realized he had not eaten for some time, and decided to sample the fare in one of the ship's dining facilities. He located the nearest one and immediately noted how different it was from the dining facilities on smaller ships he had seen. This one was obviously designed with the comfort of many species in mind. There was a large, brightly lit central dining area with large tables for those who preferred to dine in groups and engage socially with one another. There were also more private areas for individuals or couples, but it was the outermost areas of the hall that drew Spock's attention. They were dimly lit, for those who might not be comfortable in bright light, and there were also some areas with individual climate controls.

Spock selected a table for one in the darkest area of the facility. The level of light was not a concern; he chose it because it was nearly deserted and would be the quietest area available. He noted that the tables along the bulkheads had individual replicators for those who chose not to partake of the large cafeteria style serving modules. As he scanned the list of available cuisines, he was once again reminded of the advantages of serving on such a large ship. There was an astonishing variety of items available, designed to service virtually anyone's dietary requirements. He chose a plate of vegetables, a cup of plomeek soup, and tea. He was pleasantly surprised at the soup; it was not as good as Amanda's, but very good indeed for replicator cuisine. He finished his meal and decided to visit his duty station, even though he was not scheduled to report for duty until the following day.

Spock stood in the open doorway of the laboratory. He had been pleasantly surprised by the dining facility, but the laboratory surpassed all his expectations. It was even larger than he had expected, and was located on the lower starboard side of the saucer-shaped primary hull. What little equipment he could see was of the latest design, and he was reminded again that this ship was so new she was not yet fully fitted out. He could see that the far bulkhead held several small airlocks for experiment and instrument packages that required exposure to the vacuum of space. He walked to the row of viewports next to the bank of airlocks and noted that the lab was actually in the aft starboard quarter of the saucer section. He was far enough aft so that if he stood close to the viewport, he could see part of the cylindrical secondary hull and the strut for the starboard warp nacelle. Once again he was reminded of the enormous size of this vessel-far larger than any vessel he had ever been aboard.

It was very quiet in the lab, and he noticed that most of the workstations were as yet unoccupied. It was dark as well, and he had been momentarily surprised that the room did not illuminate upon his entrance. Then he saw the energy conduits hanging from the overhead where the lights would eventually be located. The ship was, after all, still being fitted out, and as such was not technically in service yet. A lot of the equipment was still in its shipping containers and had not been yet been installed and calibrated. For a moment he thought he was alone, but then he heard a quiet voice say "Can I help you?"

He turned, a bit startled. The speaker was very close to him, but he had not heard anyone approach. A young female stood quietly in deep shadows near a stack of thermoplastic crates, wearing the light blue one-piece jumpsuit worn by the maintenance crews. She was almost as tall as he was and very slender. She held a data pad cradled in the crook of one arm. As she stepped out of the shadows, he noted that she had unusually vivid red hair. He saw her eyes widen a bit, and before she could stop herself, she said: "Are you a Vulcan?"

"I am." His voice echoed in the cavernous room, and she took a step back. His voice had sounded unintentionally harsh, and in a softer voice said "I am called Spock. This will be my duty station."

She very quickly took on a professional tone. "Of course; we've been expecting you. Welcome aboard, Ensign. I am Ensign Azrael. I am the assigned to the xenobiology section."

This meant she would be one of his coworkers. She was young, even for an Ensign, he thought. For her to be in her final year at the academy (and to have landed this much-coveted post on the _Enterprise_ ), she must be very capable indeed.

"Thank you. I do not yet know exactly what section I will be assigned to." Gazing around the room, his eyes landed upon the piles of equipment still in their shipping containers. "Are you assisting in the installation of this equipment?"

"Well…not exactly. Technically we are supposed to wait for the shipyard workers to install everything, but they tend to be a bit rushed and heavy handed with things. I have to admit I'm going a bit stir crazy-I've been on board for two weeks with nothing much to do."

"I am to report to Lieutenant Commander Valerian for my assignment. Do you know where I might find him?"

She smiled a weak smile. "Yes; you won't. He had a family crisis and is on emergency leave. I don't know when he is expected to return, and to the best of my knowledge, no one has been assigned to his post in his absence. He and I were 'unofficially' going to set up some of the lab's equipment, but then he was called away."

Spock thought about this. He was here to perform his duties, not sit around idle and unproductive. "You had Lieutenant Commander Valorian's approval to do this?"

She smiled again, with an entirely different kind of smile. "As I said, in an unofficial sort of way. To put it another way: there is no one to tell us _not_ to install and calibrate this equipment…"

They began the next morning, starting with the spectroscopic analyzers. Occasionally a shipyard worker or two would walk in and gaze at them curiously, but they never said anything and didn't seem the type to object to someone else doing their job for them. For the most part, the equipment installations were fairly straightforward, and all of the necessary equipment, tools, and supplies were readily available. Spock carefully studied the installation manuals and calibration directives and followed them exactly.

Ensign Azrael (pronounced "Az-ray-al") told him her friends called her Az, but he could not bring himself to do so. She was very competent and performed several complex procedures entirely by herself. Spock made the mistake of asking her if she required his assistance with a plasma flow simulator, and the look she gave him was all the answer he needed. It was not a mistake he would repeat.

They continued in this fashion for the next several days. They were unsure what to do with the growing mound of empty equipment cases and containers, so Spock finally acquired an unattended pallet loader and took them to an area in the hangar bay where there were much more of the same. Once this was accomplished, the lab began to look quite shipshape and was made even more so by the timely installation & activation of the overhead lighting.

Once the majority of the hard mounted equipment was installed, they began the tedious process of stocking the many storage units & compartments with the multitude of laboratory chemicals, disposable containers, and consumables. More cases were emptied and hauled away, and they came in one morning to find that a shipyard cleaning crew had obviously been in the night before. The floors, shelves, and workstation surfaces gleamed, and the last of the refuse had been hauled away. Quite suddenly, they found themselves with nothing else left to do.

They walked slowly through the silent laboratory, making minor adjustments to various pieces of equipment. She did most of the talking, as small talk was not really a skill he had mastered. He was, however (according to Az) a very good listener, and thus was not required to contribute much to the conservation. She was very curious about Vulcan, and asked a few questions, but she was smart enough to know that Vulcans were a private people and did not often discuss personal matters. She was, however, unable to resist when she found out that he was half human.

This was most definitely an aspect of his life he was not comfortable discussing with anyone, but her open curiosity was so genuine that he found himself speaking about Amanda. He limited the discussion to Amanda's life on Earth, her career as a schoolteacher before she met Sarek and her love of botany and biology. He could tell she was fascinated by this, and that she seemed to have an insatiable thirst for learning new things. This trait would serve her well in Starfleet, he believed.

As they walked past the banks of airlocks they rounded a corner and heard the soft hiss of the laboratory doors opening. They emerged from behind a low partition to find a slender, slightly built man standing in the open doorway, his mouth hanging open a bit. He held what appeared to be some sort of botanical specimen, but he seemed to have forgotten it completely. His eyes turned to Az and he said "Good lord, girl! Did you do all this by yourself?"

Then his eyes found Spock. He was half a head shorter than the Vulcan, and Spock's right eyebrow rose involuntarily in surprise at the man's attire. He wore a thick cardigan sweater over his tunic of command gold, a clear violation of Starfleet regulations. His eyes were a piercingly vivid green, and he wore the rank insignia of a starship captain.

"No sir, I did not-I had help, as you can see." Az glanced pointedly in Spock's direction as they both snapped to attention, but there was no need to.

"Of course! You must be Ensign Spock. I am Captain Robert April-welcome aboard."

He took a step toward Spock with his right hand extended as if to shake hands, and then must have remembered that Vulcans were not comfortable with such a gesture. In a smooth motion, he instead waved the hand to the expanse of the lab and tried unsuccessfully to hide his smile.

"You two have managed to keep yourselves busy, now haven't you? I suppose somewhere there are some shipyard workers who have quite a card game going. A few more like you and we won't need them at all…"

April spent quite some time touring the lab and inspecting the new equipment installations. Occasionally he would power up a piece of equipment and run a test cycle or a self-diagnostic program. Spock noted that his eyebrows rose in approval more than once. He seemed pleasant enough, but Spock could tell that he, like many in Starfleet, had no idea how to make small talk with a Vulcan. Spock and Az maintained a respectful distance from the captain; close enough to quickly respond to any questions, but not so close as to appear to be hovering or nervous. Spock had learned early on that few humans (especially superior officers) appreciated someone looking over their shoulder. He finished his impromptu inspection, bade them goodnight, and went on his way.

Spock observed that the captain was much more cordial and easygoing than he had expected, based on his experiences with somewhat stuffy senior officers he had encountered at the Academy. He found this most refreshing and looked forward to serving under such a captain.


	3. Chapter 3 - Sarek

_Long range Vulcan shuttle_ Solthar _at high warp_

 _2365_

Sarek allowed himself a small sigh and closed his eyes. He had not slept since they left orbit, and knew that fatigue would soon demand it, whether he wanted to or not. He knew, though, that he would sleep well; he always slept better aboard ship than he did when planetside, even when he was at his home on Vulcan. There was something soothing about the soft sounds and vibrations of a ship at warp, and he looked forward to a good night's rest.

He was aware that there was nothing to be gained by exhausting himself further, as he had plenty of time ahead to rest. His destination was still three weeks away, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about that. Old habits tended to die hard, however, and he had not been able to resist further contemplating the situation he now found himself in. It was a situation that invited much contemplation, to say the least.

He stood and walked to the wall mounted replicator. Rank had its privileges, and he had programmed the settings on this replicator himself. It was one of the few luxuries he permitted himself during long journeys. He withdrew a mug of steaming tea, much too hot to drink, but that was the whole idea. He enjoyed the tea well enough, but it was the heat from the mug he desired most. He had developed a form of arthritis in his hands, and this brought a welcome relief, if only for a few moments.

He sat quietly and let the heat soak into his hands. His hearing was not what it once was, but it was still far more acute than the average human's. He could faintly hear the muted tones of a conversation in the adjacent compartment and the soft footfalls of someone passing through the corridor. His compartment was one of the few that had a viewport, and he could see the starfield outside, distorted, of course, by the warp field.

Sometimes he reflected on his lifetime of service and wondered how many hours he had spent like this: in transit to a conference or summit halfway across the galaxy. Years, probably. As a relatively young man in the Vulcan Diplomatic Corps, he had often found himself impatient to begin the coming negotiations and inwardly frustrated at the time it took to travel there. Now he looked upon such delays as a welcome respite, a chance to meditate and reflect upon a lifetime of memories.

He thought of Amanda, always patiently waiting at home, always so glad to see him when he returned. How odd it was that two people so vastly different in every way had been able to form the bond that they had, and that it had lasted for so many years.

He thought also, of course, of Spock. There were many times his son had been a disappointment, and the path his son had taken was perhaps his greatest regret. Though often emotional (far too much so for a Vulcan, he thought, but he _was_ Amanda's son as well, and there was much of her in him), the boy's keen intelligence had been impossible to deny. He had shown much promise, and would have undoubtedly been outstanding had he taken the offered position at the Vulcan Science Academy, but it was not to be.

It had been a long time since he and his son had last spoken. He knew that Spock was on the _Enterprise_ , but he had no idea where the vessel was. Spock dutifully and regularly communicated with his mother, of course (though not as often as she would have liked), but he tended to reveal few details. He assured her that he was fine, eating properly, and in general good health, and she had to be content with that.

The Vulcans that Sarek worked with regularly at the Diplomatic Corps politely and deliberately did not inquire about his son, and that was fine with him. It was not a subject he preferred to discuss, and inwardly a constant source of embarrassment. He knew, of course, that his colleagues did not see him as responsible for the actions of his son; they were aware of Spock's mixed heritage, and that the human element was, of course, to blame.

Though he had never admitted it to anyone, there had been times early in Spock's life that Sarek had contemplated the possibility that his son's human half might actually be of some benefit when he reached adulthood. Had Spock chosen to follow his father into diplomacy, his heritage might have allowed him a unique advantage in negotiations: the logic of a Vulcan, coupled with the human ability to see things from an emotional perspective.

All too soon, however, it became obvious that Spock was terribly handicapped by the inherent flaws of his humanity. Emotional outbursts at a young age and conflicts with other boys at school were all telltale signs of a bleak future at best. Sarek had done his best, but there was really no precedent for this, and he had gradually left the parenting of Spock to Amanda.

Hope had again flared briefly as Spock had matured, and Sarek had called in more than a few favors to get Spock a prestigious appointment to the Vulcan Science Academy, but Spock had politely but firmly refused it. No one had ever turned down such an appointment, and he himself had never thought it possible to feel as much shame as he had that day. Choosing instead a career in Starfleet had been even more of a disappointment, but at least it had gotten Spock off planet, to their mutual relief.

Sarek had, of course, had his fair share of interaction with Starfleet personnel, and he had come to respect the Federation, as much for its idealism as anything else. He had repeatedly encountered situations where the Federation had taken a course of action simply because it was believed it was the right thing to do, whether it benefited the Federation or not. In his experience, this was most definitely the exception rather than the rule in the diplomatic arena. Often their actions were heavily influenced by emotions, yet they managed most of the time to maintain a logical perspective.

The situation he was currently involved in went far beyond any areas he had experience in. That he had been dispatched at all to attempt to resolve this was, in his opinion, a less than prudent one. The parties involved would be unlikely to give his counsel much consideration. He was revered for his ability to mediate tense situations, but those were largely diplomatic issues. The one he now raced toward was much more than that. Klingons were not, as a rule, overly concerned with diplomacy, nor were they particularly fond of what they considered the Federation's meddling in their affairs. These factors, however, were not the problem. He was used to dealing with such things and did not consider them a particularly challenging obstacle.

The problem was simple-the Federation had chosen to involve the Romulan Star Empire in the current debacle. Upon being informed of this, the Klingon military ambassador mediating the situation had turned a remarkable shade of purple, and it was the only time Sarek could recall observing a Klingon that was actually speechless. This, he knew, was not a good sign. The ambassador had then drawn his communicator from his belt and roared three unintelligible words, at which point he had been beamed directly out of the council chamber. He beamed directly to his flagship, which almost immediately departed the system at full impulse. This was a gross violation of diplomatic niceties, (not to mention security protocols), and foretold of ominous developments to come back on QuuonoS. Sarek recalled an ancient Earth expression Amanda had once used –"What I would give to be a fly on the wall…"

At the time, he had not immediately understood it. Why would anyone wish to be such an insect? Then she had explained it, and its meaning became clear. The thought of it (and of her) brought the faintest wisp of a smile to his face. Indeed, he would dearly have liked to have heard the conversations in the Klingon High Council once the ambassador had reported to his superiors.

Generally speaking, the Klingons despised the Federation and its ideology. Diplomacy and the seeking of peaceful resolutions to conflicts and disputes were incomprehensible to the Klingon mindset. They scoffed at it and laughed at the cowardice they perceived in the actions of Federation captains. They openly boasted of the great victories they would certainly attain if they were ever to find themselves in battle with the Federation.

That said, there was no hatred for the Federation as a whole, just incomprehension. Romulans, however, were a very different matter. Mention the Romulans to a Klingon and you could see it on his face-the narrowing of the eyes, the teeth bared in a snarl, the clenched fists, every muscle tensed and taught like a drawn bowstring.

This negotiation would indeed be an interesting one, to say the least...


	4. Chapter 4 - K'Vorn VaK'ich Shipyards

_K'Vorn VaK'ich Shipyards_

 _2243_

It was cold, so cold you could see your breath, and it was not apt to get warmer anytime soon. The ship was so new many of her environmental controls were not yet functional, and she was at present totally dependent on the dock umbilicals for all of her power, artificial gravity, and atmospherics. The air was breathable, but no further thought was given to the comfort of her crew and shipfitters. Right now she was on the dark side of the planet, which made it colder still. The emergency lighting systems (currently the only operational lighting systems on the entire vessel) provided a dim reddish-orange illumination throughout her corridors. Clusters of brighter portable lights illuminated areas currently being worked upon.

At the moment, she was quiet. The work crews were currently in shift rotation, and that was fine with Jorn. Ship construction was rarely a quiet operation, and he savored these rare moments of silence. Shift rotation was a time-consuming process. This ship's design was state of the art, and thus highly classified, and the Klingon Empire was not known for being terribly trusting where military secrets were concerned. All shipfitters and dockyard workers were subjected to intensive security screenings and scans every time they came aboard or left for the day, and this took time. No personal communication or recording devices were allowed on board.

He was heading aft, towards the large secondary hull that housed the ship's warp core, impulse and warp engines and pylons, shuttle bay, and most of her engineering spaces and crew quarters. He was in the long, slender "neck" that connected the bulbous primary hull to the rest of the ship. Portions of the outer hull plating had not yet been installed here, and temporary force fields were all that held the vast emptiness of space at bay. He always found it a bit disconcerting to be in this section, and when traveling here he tried to walk as quickly as possible, not that it made much of a difference. Power interruptions while in the fitting out dock were not unknown or uncommon, and a power interruption to these force fields would have unpleasant consequences for anyone who happened to be in the area at the time.

He passed through enormous airlock doors into the secondary hull and headed to the galley. One thing you could say for the shipyard: they had made sure the galley was one of the first areas to be fully operational on the ship. Food (very good food indeed for a Klingon warship) was always available, and a huge urn of steaming raktajino was always fresh. The replicators were of an entirely new design, and Jorn had to admit that the engineers responsible had done a fine job. Of course, it was probably in their own best interests to do so…

He made his selections at the replicator, then filled a battered metal teacup from the urn and eased awkwardly into a darkened corner table. He sat alone with his meal and studied the mess hall's one attempt at decoration-a stunningly beautiful portrait of Kahless the Unforgettable mounted on the largest bulkhead surface. The artist had earned great honor for his house by being selected to create the artwork. Kahless had been depicted with bat'leth in hand, standing atop the corpse of a defeated enemy, victory and triumph in his eyes. Though he had seen it many times, it never failed to send a thrill through his heart, a fire of fierce pride in his race and heritage.

He listened to the whisper of the atmospherics, the hum of the artificial gravity generator, and all of the ever-present background noise of a starship. This ship would do great things, he mused. Many Klingon officers scoffed at the Federation and its vessels. After all, they did not even call _themselves_ warriors, so they were not even worthy of being taken seriously. Yet no one could deny that the technical specifications of the new Federation starships now entering service were impressive and that such a vessel would indeed be a most worthy adversary in combat.

There were now three of the new Federation starships in service, although the first ship of the class was serving as an engineering test bed to refine and improve the design, and probably would serve in this capacity for some time. The other two, however, were fully operational and deployed to persistent trouble spots near the Neutral Zone. There had not yet (as far as he knew, anyway) been any direct encounters between either of the new starships and any Klingon vessels. Jorn could well imagine how eager the Empire's battle cruiser commanders were to engage the new starships and put them to the test.

There were, however, two rather important deterrents to such an engagement. The first was very simple- the Empire was not at war with the Federation. As eager as the members of the High Council were to learn more about the new ships, it was not worth starting a war over, especially if the Federation vessels proved to be as formidable as they were thought to be. And, while most in the Empire dreamed of the day when such a war existed, the leaders of the High Council knew that this was not yet the time.

The reason it was not yet the time was also simple- the front line D-6 cruisers now in use by the Empire were hopelessly outclassed and outgunned by the new Federation ships. Such an encounter would be futile as there could be only one outcome. Sure, a fleet of D-6s might stand a chance against one of the _Constitution_ class ships, but there would be little honor in that. There was no glory to be had in overwhelming an enemy by sheer numbers-indeed, such a victory would be a shameful one.

The D-6 had served the empire well, but it was merely the last in a long line of upgraded versions of a now far outdated design. Warp drive technology had advanced significantly in the last decade, and now the new engines were capable of far greater speed than the structural integrity of the hull of a D-6 could tolerate. The forces involved were staggering, and problems with resonant frequency and inertial dampening could not be overcome using the existing D-6 design.

Weapons design and shield development had been vastly improved as well, and the D-6 was simply not capable of producing the sustained power output the new systems demanded. The High Council had been reluctant at first to procure the enormous development costs of an entirely new design, but the Federation's Constitution-class had, in effect, forced their hand.

The result of all this was the ship Jorn now called home. She was the first of what would come to be known as the D-7, and though she was in effect the prototype, she would nonetheless deploy to front line service as soon as possible. The Empire could not afford for her to languish for years as a developmental platform, not with two of the _Constitution_ class vessels now operational, and more under construction at the Utopia Planitia Shipyards.

The D-7 was the Empire's answer to the new Federation starships. She was a magnificent design; to their credit, once the High Council had decided to fund the development of the new vessel, they had spared no expense. They had designed her around her engineering plant, warp core, and weapons systems instead of trying to fit these systems into a fixed hull design. They had looked ahead, as well; she was engineered with an eye towards future development and upgrades, and there was plenty of space in her hull for additional equipment. She was much stronger than she needed to be for the loads that would be imposed upon her by her planned engine designs. Her structural integrity would allow for decades of advancements in engine technology.

Klingons did not waste time and effort trying to convince anyone that they were peaceful explorers. This was a warship, and she served no other purpose. She was built to withstand serious battle damage and still remain fully functional. Critical systems were quadruple redundant in places and separated as much as was possible so that no one hit could take out a system completely. Many of the massive structural support fixtures throughout the hull were of a telescoping impact absorbing design, and would "give" upon impact, as opposed to a rigid structure that might fracture.

Her shields were to be the most powerful ever developed and were of a new multi-layered design. Conventional shields would envelop an entire vessel in a barrier of defensive energy, but it was an equal level of protection around the perimeter of the vessel. Much energy was wasted shielding areas of the vessels not in danger of attack.

The new shields would concentrate the shielding only in areas it was needed. For example, if the D-7 was engaging a vessel off her starboard bow, the shields would only deploy in those areas vulnerable to a hit from that angle. As a result, the concentrated shielding was much stronger than a thin layer over the entire vessel. This, in turn, would also leave more power available for weapons or maneuvering.

She was magnificent, and Jorn was still amazed that he had been asked to serve upon her and serve the Empire by helping to oversee her fitting out & trials. Jorn's father and three older brothers had, of course, served in the Klingon military, and all had died gloriously in combat. They now sailed forever in the Black Fleet and drank blood wine by the keg alongside the many warriors who had given their lives in the service of the Empire. For a time, Jorn had been ashamed that he himself still lived, and that had never actually seen combat, but that all changed when he was assigned to the D-7 program.

He realized that his contribution to the Empire might well be found in the glorious victories the D-7s were certain to attain. The galaxy was full of enemies who plotted against the Empire, but fortunately, the High Council was diligent about keeping the Klingon people informed of these threats to their homes, families, and way of life. Only by maintaining a massive military force could the Empire protect itself, and Jorn was honored to be a part of it.

Jorn once again was stricken by how lucky he was to be here serving on the newest and finest ship in the fleet. Very lucky indeed...


	5. Chapter 5 - Praxis

_Praxis_

 _2217_

 _26 years earlier_

The crippled boy tried to be motionless in the shadows, but couldn't help shivering in the cold. He wanted to be sure the alleyway was deserted before venturing out into what passed for the light of day here. If any of the older boys found him here (or, for that matter, anywhere), he would have a very bad day. He stared at the doors of the shop that stood so invitingly ajar, and he knew how warm it would be inside. He looked both ways and saw nothing and decided to take a chance. He bolted from the shadows and ran as fast as he could towards the safety of the shop.

"Ran" was probably wishful thinking. "Hobbled like a crippled crab" was way more of an accurate description. He loped along with his awkward gait, bobbing from side to side, easy prey for anything or anyone that wished to be a predator. He had been born a cripple, with one leg a stunted, twisted shadow of the other. He had never been able to run, climb, or, most importantly, fight as the other boys his age could. His father was an honorable man and a brave warrior. He had sired three fine, strong sons and had always tried to be kind to his crippled boy, but Jorn had seen the disdain flicker in his eyes, and in those of his brothers. They had eventually found it convenient for all to forget he really existed. He was fed and clothed and housed, and that was all. He had no friends, of course, as no one wanted to be cast in the shadow of his shame. His only companion lay beyond the open doors of the shop. He did not know it yet, but salvation lay there as well.

He stumbled into the darkness of the shop, and then the orange glow welcomed him in, as it always did. He could feel the heat of the forge long before he got near it, and breathed a sigh of relief. He slowed to a stop, and a grating rasp of a voice spoke out of the dark.

"Do ya think I have all day, boy?"

"Yes, old man-I think you do. We both know that, don't we?"

"That we do, boy, that we do. Can you hand me whatever they brought me today and shut your yap?"

"Depends. What's it worth to you, old man?"

He walked slowly to a stout wooden table near the open doors. The table was a six-inch thick slab of solid wood with legs as big around as small tree trunks. Its surface was scarred and pitted with decades of hard use, and oil and grease stains from ages past were forever ingrained in the wood. An assortment of dark and strange metallic objects was scattered on top of it. Jorn grabbed the closest one and grunted with the effort of picking it up. He struggled awkwardly to the place where the old man sat in the half darkness. He carefully set the item on an old cut down oil drum that sat at the old man's feet.

Jorn hated the way he knew looked when he walked, and when he ran it was even worse. Lugging the heavy items around the shop, he looked even more ridiculous, but it was never a problem here. That's why he loved it here; the old man never laughed or made fun of him.

"It's worth me not cuttin' your insolent head of your shoulders, and if I were you, I'd take the deal."

The old man's gnarled and scarred hands gently caressed the item before him. "T-16 drill bit, an old one, made before they started using that alloy crap. Is there a note with this one? Wait; never mind; I found it." His ancient fingers caressed the threads of the huge bit, and he felt the almost imperceptible ridges of the burr, a tiny curl of an imperfection worn into the metal.

"Bring me the big external tapspinner-the blue one with the white stripe." Groaning, Jorn did as he was asked. The tool was heavier that the bit had been. He helped the old man clamp it around the bit's threads, fit the handles, and begin the slow, back and forth motion that got easier as the damaged section was worked smooth again. The old man sprinkled a bit of powdered graphite into the threads and it grew smoother still. Finally, he removed the tool and gently rubbed the threads with an ancient oilcloth until they shone in the glow of the forge.

"Next one, boy, and be quick about it."

The boy had been coming here for a long time. The old man had once been a senior machinist in the engine room of a D-5 class battlecruiser. He had been a legendary metalsmith and engineer and had once served aboard the chancellor's flagship-a great honor indeed. His engineering spaces were always spotless, his lathes and metalworking equipment oiled and sharpened to perfection. That all ended when a plasma conduit exploded in his face. He had been attempting a to repair a battle damaged shield generator and remembered a blinding (literally) flash, then a searing, scalding pain in his face. There were no eyes left to repair when his crewmates dragged him to the medical bay, and he lingered for three days before they decided he may live after all, and began treating his injuries. They put what was left of his face back together as best they could.

There was no berth in the fleet for a blind engineer, and he was unceremoniously shipped off with a sliver of a veteran's pension to the mining colonies of Praxis. The moon was a dark, cold, and dismal place, but the darkness did not, of course, bother him in the least. He used years of unspent military wages to purchase an ancient machine shop, and he managed to scrape a meager living by repairing the tools of the mining trade. At the end of every shift, the miners brought him their bent and broken tools, drill bits, engine parts, and everything else that went into the mines that needed repair.

Blind as he was, his hands remembered a lifetime of work, and his blindness made his hands hypersensitive. The tiniest flaw or crack could not escape his ancient touch, and the miners regarded his skills with as much awe as respect. Miners were not generally wealthy men, but they worked hard, and he respected that. They paid what they could, which wasn't much, but it wasn't always currency they paid with. Sometimes a steaming pot of soup, or a warm bottle of bloodwine, or occasionally fuel for the forge. It didn't really matter. In his own way, he still served the empire, and it was enough.

The boy had come to him a tiny, lurching, frightened thing, fleeing the bigger boys who made him their sport. One day he heard panicked breathing and a step/drag/step noise burst into his shop. Most children were afraid of the ruin of his face, but this boy was more afraid of the terrors outside than of a scarred old man. The boy had been hesitant but curious, and they soon established an unspoken bargain: the boy's eyes, hands, and legs for the old man's stories and the safety of the shop.

Jorn had been coming here for years, and though he wasn't quite aware of it, he had developed some serious musculature from working with the heavy tools and equipment in the shop. His leg may have been a twisted, feeble thing, but his arms were thickly corded and he could easily lift his own weight. His chest was wide, and he lifted great lengths of pipe with ease. He had learned to use the tools in the shop and was adept at the forge, the welder, and the plasma cutter.

As the boy dragged away a large pump housing, the old man sipped from a piping hot battered metal cup of tea. It was piping hot because he kept the cup on the edge of the forge. The forge was everything to him: his stove, his coffeepot, his heater, his clothing dryer, and his livelihood.

The last thing the boy did before leaving at night was to stoke the forge for the night. Its warmth would last through the night and into the early morning with ease. When the day's work was done, the blind man and the crippled boy sat before the forge and had their meager supper together. The boy brought him whatever he needed as he sat with his sightless eyes staring into the glow of the forge. After their meal was complete, the boy sat silently beside him, and at some point the old man would clear his throat and the stories would begin.

"I remember once…"

The old man filled Jorn's head with stories of brave warriors in furious battles, of shattered ships and broken warriors, of screams of agony and of triumph. The sagas of Kahless the Unforgettable and his incredible conquests, the tales of the Black Fleet sailing forever in eternal darkness, and a hundred more.

Jorn was spellbound by all this, and he soaked it up like a sponge. He read all he could about ships and engines and weapons systems. The old man would give him an imaginary engineering problem and have Jorn mentally go through the necessary troubleshooting steps to resolve the issue. He began to develop the ability to visualize systems in his mind and how they interacted with each other: electrical, hydraulics, pneumatics, plasma fields. He didn't know it at the time, but this was a trait that all the truly great engineers possessed. It was a priceless gift and a terrible curse at the same time.

A fleet engineer's life was spent in steaming hot engine rooms with ear-shattering noise and endless hours of thankless toil. No one wrote stories about brave engineers or sang songs of glorious battlefield repairs. Nonetheless, it was service to the empire. Kahless was a legend, but his battlecruiser was useless without her engineering crew, and it was through their tireless work that he sailed into an everlasting and glorious history.

Jorn was 17 years old when he walked into the shop to find the forge had cooled and the old man had slept a sleep that was now an eternal one. He had died warm by his forge with a full belly, his tea still warm beside him. Jorn drank the tea as he wept, kissed the old man gently on the top of his head, and walked away. He took the battered metal cup; he could not bear to think of it never being warm again.


End file.
